Burdens
by Ludi
Summary: Rogue's in a neural stutter; Remy can't sleep and gets into his feels. A short, behind-the-scenes, 52 Pickup ficlet.


**Disclaimer:** Marvel's. Not mine.

**Rating:** For general audiences.

**Author note:** A short behind-the-scenes ficlet I wrote for _52 Pickup_ earlier this year. Remy can't sleep and gets into his feels.

* * *

**Burdens**

You feel the needle slide into your vein; it sinks into you and you sink into it; nothing consumes you but slow time; you're laid out like a baby in its crib, utterly open wide, utterly defenceless, and it's okay.

It doesn't matter.

That knot in your stomach? It's gone.

The thing that stops you sleeping at night. All gone.

The things you remember. Vanished.

You turn on a headset, and it's someone else's life, someone else's sordid desires. No responsibilities. It's like something you stole – it doesn't belong to you, yet you own it all. This is another you. Another asshole who doesn't have to care. Doesn't have to regret. Doesn't have to cry in the long, lonely hours.

You know what it's like, to be open-wide and defenceless, like a baby. You know what it means. You remember the feel of her in your palm, the knot in your stomach that's never gone. Smooth and warm and tiny, so tiny. Too still. Breaths coming so laboured.

Why is life such a struggle?

You never struggled to live before. You never struggled until she did.

And you're supposed to be the brave one.

Your wife sobs. You can't tell her it's going to be okay. You can't even bring yourself to hold her. You can't explain to her that the only way for you to be strong is to ice your heart over. She's counting on you to make the decision she can't. You take that on because you want to be brave for her. It feels like the one thing you can do for her, because you can't bear to hold her when she's broken. It feels like a mission, like a calling, like a sacrifice.

Lord, but you don't know what that sacrifice entails now. How she'll despise you for it.

She squirms in your hand.

You become conscious of the fact that you're saying _goodbye._

You want to weep, but you can't.

You can't be as broken as her.

You have to be the strong one. You have to make the choice she can't.

There are so many things, you think later, as the needle slides inside your vein, that you regret, that you can't change. So many things, as you switch on the headset, that you lost and that still remain.

Right there, as a knot in your stomach. The thing that you wake up to, that stops you from sleeping at night.

It seems ridiculous to you now, that when they asked if they could switch off life support, you said _yes_, thinking you were being brave. Because _bravery_ was a cloak you could wear, to give you an excuse not to hold your wife, not to cry.

You did it all wrong, you know.

_You did it all wrong._

Or maybe you didn't. Maybe it was all just life.

Maybe you're just meant to live with this burden you carry. This knot in your stomach. Maybe it'll kill you, and that's okay.

Yeah.

You'll wake in the morning, or some other time of the day or night, and you'll remember all this. You'll remember how she felt in the palm of your hand, the weight of her life against yours. She changed you. Just not the way you ever expected.

And you'll live another day. Maybe, maybe not. It's almost cliché to say you don't care, but you don't. It doesn't ease the burden you bear. It won't ease till you're no longer there to realise it's gone.

You get up, out of bed.

You've been dreaming. The dreams come less, but they're still there.

You're in a strange place, in a bedroom that isn't yours. _Been here plenty of times_, you think wryly.

You're restless, you can't sleep, you don't know why. You're a changed man, but not quite. You still carry that burden. You're just better at distracting yourself these days.

No more track marks. No more 'facing. No more bleed effect.

_That's good, right?_ There's pride in being able to deal with life without resorting to crutches. That's what the world tells you. But God, the temptation is there. The temptation not to feel. You know she understands. That makes you feel better, somehow. It makes you feel less alone.

You never knew how alone you were, till you met her.

You wander out into the hallway, and into her room.

You don't know why you hesitate when you get there, but you do.

There are things you've taught yourself to feel, ways you've taught yourself to behave, and none of them feel appropriate here. You don't even know why you're here, except that you want to see her.

You go to her in the darkness, you stand by her bedside.

You can't see her, so you set the lights to the dimmest setting.

_Hey_, you ask her,_ you 'wake_?

She doesn't answer.

She's lying flat on her back, unmoving. Comatose. Still.

_I need to talk to you_, you say.

That's wrong. So,_ I need to talk to someone_, you correct yourself.

She still doesn't answer.

And you still can't leave.

So you sit on the bed beside her, and you watch her for a bit.

You don't have a type, but you think she might be yours. You think she might be, not because of the way she looks, but because of the way she compliments you. You can't make a move without her expertly parrying back. You can't have a thought without her subconsciously acting on it.

You feel like you're cheating right now, because you're here and she's not. She should be able to answer you, but she can't. You've betrayed her more times than you can tell already. The past couple of days you've gone through her entire apartment twice. You've 'faced with all those mem-chips you're supposed to be collecting for her. Read through her bills, her medical reports. Hacked into her laptop, downloaded her files. Run your fingers through the clothes in her closet, stared at the boxes and boxes of chips she stole from Essex.

She's supposed to be killing you now for it, but she can't. Life's supposed to be a struggle, and you want her to struggle back, but she won't, not now.

And you think she's beautiful. You kind of think you might be falling for her, but that's too pleasant a struggle, and you're not sure how to deal with it right now.

Still, you reach out and touch her wrist. You mark the feel of her in your palm. She's smooth and warm and firm, and she doesn't tremble. Her breathing is light, regular. Not laboured.

Your fingers clasp about her wrist. You rub your thumb along the line of the scar there.

_Hey_, you whisper softly. _I want to know how you got this. _

And still, she doesn't answer. But the words still push at you, and so you say:

_Did you lose someone you loved too, chere?_

_ I did._

_ I wanted to die too._

_ It's okay, I won't judge you 'cos of it. _

_ I had a kid and a wife once. Surprise, huh?_

_ They're both gone now, but… …_

_ My kid – my daughter… she got t'be three days old. And sometimes, somehow…_

_ I miss her._

_And I never even knew her._

You stop. You're not crying, yet.

_Do you miss the things, the people, you lost? Do you even remember them?_

_ I do. I wish I didn't._

That's when you're stupid enough to cry.

You grip her wrist tighter because you're feeling so much pain; but she still doesn't wake up, and after a moment you collect yourself and you loosen your grip. You feel a little embarrassed.

_Ain't never told that to no one b'fore,_ you're saying. _ I hope you know that, chere. _She doesn't move, her eyelids don't even flutter, but still you're moved to say to her, _Sorry I came in here. Sorry I disturbed your sleep, I just… …_

You pause. You don't know how to finish that sentence. Or you do, and you don't want to say it.

_I jes' want you to know you're not alone._

No, that's not right…

_I jes' didn't want t'be alone._

That's better.

_ You're not here, but I don't feel alone, even though you can't hear me. I guess that's all I came for._

You want to apologise again, but you're not sorry. You know something now. You know that you would've come here and said all this if she'd been awake. You would've confessed the things that kept you up tonight. Now, and only now, would you have confessed this truth to her.

It scares you, but not as much as you think it should.

Love makes you open-wide, defenceless as a baby.

It's a peripheral thought, a _feeling_, and you don't acknowledge it now, but you will later.

For now, you squeeze her wrist, her hand.

Simple camaraderie.

You're sorry you went through her things. You don't want to betray her, but you're kind of bound on a course right now, and until you learn to course-correct, there isn't much you can do.

_I'll let you rest_, you say pointlessly. _Be back tomorrow mornin' to check on you, b'fore Raven comes, okay? Maybe I'll get some sleep before then. Maybe not_.

You let go of her hand and you rise.

You look down on her and you want to touch her cheeks the way her lashes do.

She makes you less lonely, yet more lonely. You don't quite know what that means just yet.

_Liar_. You know what it means, you just don't want to admit it.

So you turn off the lights, and you shut the door quietly behind you.

You get back into bed, and you stare at the ceiling.

Sleep presses in on you, and you don't even know it.

That knot in your stomach?

Gone.

-END-


End file.
